by Roger Bax
James regarded him with interest. “I’m told you’ve lost a watch recently, Mr. Pepper. Is this the one?” He produced the gold hunter from a tin box and laid it carefully on the table.
“Ah, that is,” said Fred eagerly, and stretched out his hand for it.
“Just a minute, Mr. Pepper. You shall have it later, but we don’t want it touched at the moment.”
Fred was leaning forward, and his expression of pleasure faded. “That’s bin injured,” he said sharply. “That’s bin reg’lar messed about with, beggin’ y’r pardon. That’s whully broke.” He glared accusingly at the inspector. “What bad ole lot ded that?”
“We should very much like to know,” said James. “You’re quite sure it’s your watch, I suppose? There’s no name in it.”
“I’m sartin sure. There’s many’ll tell ye so hereabouts. That wore gimme by me owd dad tharty year ago. He paid forever o’ money for that.” The sexton’s indignation was increasing.
“That’s all right,” said James soothingly. “We don’t doubt your word if you say so. When did you last have it in your possession, Mr. Pepper?”
“Friday mornin’,” said Fred promptly, “an’ I’ll telly f’r why. Fortnit ago summat went amiss wi’ that, needed cleanin’ I reckon, an’ bein’ there woren’t no watchmender in Wicklen I brought that in to Higgins’s here in Judiford an’ ast ’em to set it to rights. Jest down the street, they are, opposite the White Lion. Mostly I only wear the watch Sundays, bein’ that’s worth a tidy sum an’ too good to mess about in weekdays, but Friday mornin’ a postcard come from Higgins’s sayin’ ’twore all fixed, so I got the bus from Wicklen an’ fetched that.”
James frowned as trouble loomed larger. “Friday morning, eh?”
“Ah.”
“Well, and what did you do after you’d collected it?”
“I got the first bus back, bein’ I had the grave to dig for ole George Peckitt afore dinner, an’ I got off at the chu’ch.”
“Did you still have the watch?”
“Ah.”
“How do you know?”
“I seed ’twore five-and-twenty minutes past nine by the chu’ ch clock, an’ I took out the little ole watch an’ that clock wore two minutes behind.”
“I see. And then you set to work on the grave, eh?”
“That’s a true word. I dug that grave all mornin’, an’ when the chu’ ch clock struck twelve I wore whully tired an’ went off to mine.”
“You went home?” James could just about follow the broad slovenly speech and the singsong Fenland lilt that Fred had learned as a child in the droves, but some of the phrases bothered him.
“Ah, I went off to mine.”
“Did you notice whether you still had the watch when you stopped digging?”
“I never took no heed on it. Happen I ded, happen that had slipped from me westkit pocket afore I began to dig.” Mr. Pepper displayed the pocket in question, now neatly repaired. “I’m a man that don’t speak without he knows.”
“That’s fair enough. Well, when did you discover that you’d lost it?”
“I’ll telly. Come dinnertime I wore sittin’ indoors listenin’ to th’ owd wireless an’ when them pips went for one o’clock I felt for the watch an’ bless me, that woren’t there. There woren’t nawthin’ but a hole what the missus hedn’t mended.”
“Quite a shock for you, eh? What did you do, Mr. Pepper? Did you mention your loss?”
Fred looked sheepish. “I dussn’t. The missus wore in a bad mood. ‘I musta dropped that in th’ owd chu’chyard,’ I thinks to meself, ‘an’ ’tain’t a mite o’ use lettin’ on ’bout it till I’ve hed a look f’r that. I’ll not tell her nawthin’, the ole faggit,’ I thinks, ‘for she’ll on’y keep on ’bout it.’ She’s a clanjanderin’ wummen ever I see.” Fred sighed. “I reckon we all got our crosses.”
James caught the delighted eye of the bachelor Maddox, and smiled. “So when in fact did you look for it, Mr. Pepper?”
“D’reckly arter dinner, o’ course. I walked straight back to the ole chu’chyard an’ looked everywheres, but that jest woren’t to be seen.”
“You didn’t look in the grave, though?”
“Ah, that I ded. ’ Tworen’t there, I telly.”
James frowned. “I think it must have been.”
Fred shook his head. “I’m sartin sure ’tworen’t.”
“But that’s where we found it, Mr. Pepper. You say you had the watch when you got to the churchyard, and you didn’t have it when you got home, and you were working in the grave, and we found it in the grave—it stands to reason it was there.”
Fred digested that. “Well,” he said at last, “it’s a rum ’un, to my thinkin’. Still, bein’ you found that in the grave, reckon I musta bin mistook.” His eyes dwelt unhappily on the mutilated watch. “That’ll cost a tidy bit o’ money to put right. Who’s to pay, I’d like to know.”
“We’ll have to see about it, Mr. Pepper. Perhaps we can arrange something later.”
“I’ll be beholden to ye,” said Fred.
“Meanwhile,” the inspector went on, “I’ll have to ask you to leave the watch with us. It’s evidence in the case, you know. Valuable evidence.”
“Ah, that’s valuable all right,” said Fred.
“The sergeant here will give you a receipt for it, and we’ll look after it for you and see that it doesn’t come to any more harm. By the way, I’d be glad if you wouldn’t mention that it was found in the grave.”
“I ’on’t tell a soul,” said Fred solemnly. “If ye tell folks all ye know, they know as much as you do.”
“Exactly,” said James, gazing thoughtfully at the philosopher and wondering if he could be relied on to keep his mouth shut. “Well, now, there are just one or two other questions while you’re here. Did you know Mr. Hutton?”
“Ah, I knew’m. I ded a job o’ gardenin’ whiles at Osier Cottage.”
“You did, eh? I thought the garden looked very well kept. I suppose Mr. Hutton did a bit himself now and again, though?”
Fred shook his head. “He dedn’t do nawthin’ in the ole garden. Reckon he dedn’t know one end of a spade from t’other.”
“Oh. Well, how did you get on with him? Did you like him?”
“I favored him wunnerful,” said Fred. “He wore a proper gennelman, rightly speakin’. He wore allus friendly, an’ allus pide up reg’lar.”
“That’s certainly a point in his favor. Tell me, did anyone ever visit him at the cottage while you were working there?”
“On’y his young gel—Miss Rutherford, from the Farm.”
“No one else—no strangers?”
“I never seed none. He wore a furriner, o’ course, an’ he kep’ his bus’ness to hisself.”
“What do you mean, a foreigner?”
“Well, he woren’t a Long Wicklen man.”
“Oh, I see. You’d have noticed, I dare say, if any stranger had called while you were there—anyone who didn’t live in the village, I mean?”
“I reckon so. Ye gotter keep y’ r eyes open in this here world; don’t, ye ’on’t see what’s right in front o’ ye.”
“Very true,” James agreed. “Sergeant, there’s a text to hang over your bed!” He bent a benign gaze on Fred. “Do you live near Osier Cottage?”
“Ah. Mine’s the next place to Mr. Hutton’s.”
“Is that so? You didn’t, I suppose, happen to hear anything unusual going on on Saturday evening—shots, or shouting, or a car coming and going, or anything like that?”
“’Tain’t likely,” said Fred. “’Twore rainin’ an’ blowin’ so, reckon I ’ouldn’t heer nawthin’ anyways. ’Magination, now, that’s easy, but ye don’t want to tek no notice o’ that. Do, that’ll set ye wrong.”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Pepper.” James shifted his chair back. “Well, thank you very much—you’ve been a great help. We’ll see that you get your watch back in due course.”
“Thanky f’r me,” sa
id Fred, “an’ good mornin’ to ye.” He cast a lingering look at the battered hunter and allowed himself to be escorted back to the car.
Chapter Thirteen
“That’s torn it,” said Maddox.
James gave a rueful nod. “As you say, Sergeant. It puts a very different complexion on things, doesn’t it?” He sat silent for a moment, mentally arranging the facts. “As I see it, the position is now this. The watch was struck by pellets from a shotgun. During the whole of the time when those shots could have been fired, it was lying at the bottom of the grave. It was therefore hit by a shot fired into the grave. Since Hutton’s body was lying on top of the watch, and in just the right position, it’s reasonable to suppose that he was hit by the same shot. And if one barrel was fired into the grave, it’s almost certain the other barrel was too. In short, Sergeant, Hutton was killed in the grave. Beautiful, isn’t it? A perfect logical sequence.”
“It’s screwy,” said Maddox.
“If we’re to believe Fred Pepper’s account of his movements—and I don’t see why we shouldn’t—it’s inescapable. It certainly explains a lot of things—the fact that all the blood was concentrated round his head and shoulders, for instance. And it’s certainly no more screwy than your theory of the watch being in the line of fire on some dresser and being brought to the grave afterward in the victim’s pocket for no reason whatever. I never could see how the watch could have got damaged. Of course, it raises a host of other problems. Still, this is something we can check. Come on, Sergeant, we’re going to the grave.”
Once again the police car sped purposefully along the high road to Long Wicklen church. As it drew up, a constable emerged from the churchyard and came forward to see if there were anything he could do. Evidently he was one of the men assigned to the job of keeping a discreet watch in the neighborhood of the church. James sent him off to get the key of the storeroom from the vicarage, for the short ladder had been removed from the grave after the body had been taken away, and the inspector had not the build for acrobatics.
With Maddox at his side, he strolled along the now familiar path to the scene of the crime and stared into the hole, not without distaste. It had been a peculiarly macabre sort of murder—and any violence was out of place here. An air of peacefulness brooded over the gray church, and no sound came from Monks Farm but the distant yapping of puppies.
After a few moments the constable arrived with the ladder and James, waving Maddox’s offer aside, descended cautiously. The bottom of the grave was still very wet. James flashed a torch, studying for a moment the marks of Fred Pepper’s rubber boots. Then he found the peg which Maddox had put in to mark the spot where the watch had lain. He examined the earth around the peg and began to scrape some of it away with his finger tips. Presently he gave a satisfied grunt as he felt hard, round objects just below the surface. He scooped them out and wiped the dirt off them. “Pellets, Sergeant,” he said, passing them up for Maddox’s inspection. “That settles one point, anyway.”
He continued to probe, and had soon recovered the greater part of a charge of shot, which he put away in an empty tin. In the soft soil a few inches from the peg he also found the wads from the cartridge. One barrel had evidently been discharged into this spot from a distance of a few feet, and what had happened then was clear. Two or three pellets had lodged in Hutton’s shoulder, a couple had just caught the edge of the watch, and the rest of the charge had buried itself in the ground.
The inspector now switched his examination to that part of the grave above which Hutton’s shattered head had rested. This time, in spite of diligent search, he could find no pellets, thus confirming that the head had taken the whole charge. He delved deeper, tearing away chunks of earth. They were a dark, treacly brown—the bottom of the grave at this point was saturated with blood. There could no longer be any doubt. Hutton had been shot here, and had bled and died here.
James climbed stiffly out of the grave, flicking bits of sticky earth from his finger tips and wiping his palms on a tuft of grass. “Filthy mess!” he muttered. “All right, constable, you can leave the ladder for the time being—I’ll be wanting some of that earth later.”
He stood staring for a moment at the grassy depression which had caught his eye on the previous day. “Of course,” he said defensively, “we’d have discovered the truth in any case when we came to examine the bottom of the grave. It was only a question of time. I must say it never occurred to me that the body that was brought here might have been a live body.”
Maddox looked as though he thought that a pardonable oversight. “He must have been doped or knocked unconscious or something. But it still beats me why anyone should go to all the trouble of making a man unconscious and carrying him to a grave and shooting him there when it would have been so much easier and safer to shoot him and dispose of him in some other place.”
James nodded gloomily. “There must be a rational explanation, I suppose, though I must admit I can’t think of one at the moment. Of course, by bringing Hutton to the grave the murderer was able to make a nice tidy job of the crime and that’s often halfway to success. But that couldn’t have been his only reason.”
“There’s another thing, Chief. If he was shot here, you’d have thought that someone up at the house would have heard the gun go off.”
“Yes, you would,” said James grimly. “Ah, well, let’s go and see if we can get through to Drake. Perhaps he’ll be able to tell us how Hutton was knocked out.”
Back in the office, James put in a call to the Yard. In a few moments, Drake’s sharp voice came on the line. “That you, Inspector? Yes, I’ve done the analyses. I was just going to ring you.”
“Sorry to rush you, Doctor, but there’ve been developments here. What did you find?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” The inspector’s thick brows drew together. “I quite thought you’d have news for us. You see, we’ve pretty well established that something must have made Hutton unconscious before he was shot.”
“Then you’ll have to disestablish it. He was a perfectly healthy young fellow and there’s not a trace of anything suspicious in any of the organs.”
“You mean he wasn’t doped or drunk or anything?”
“Definitely not.” There was an audible chuckle from Drake. “Of course, he could have been hypnotized!”
James glowered into the telephone. “Drake, this is serious. Hutton was shot in the grave, that’s positive.… Yes, in the grave. It’s soaked with blood and I’ve found more pellets. Nobody could have got him there alive if he hadn’t been unconscious. You’d better rustle up a rare poison or find a concealed bruise or something. It’s vital.”
The receiver gave a splenetic crackle. “What do you think I am—a mail-order department?”
“But there must be something. Are you quite sure he wasn’t sandbagged or knocked out in some way that wouldn’t leave much of a mark? Mightn’t infrared bring out something?”
“How the devil can infrared bring out anything when there’s nothing to bring out?” squealed Drake. “What do you think I was doing all the time I was down there yesterday? That chap hasn’t even got a birthmark. You say you think he was taken to the grave unconscious; that means he would have had to be unconscious for quite a while. It would have taken a hell of a blow to make sure he’d be out all that time. You’re on the wrong track, Chief. If you like, I’ll check up again on the corpse, but you can take it from me here and now that it’s a thousand to one against our finding anything, unless your killer was some sort of anatomical wizard or top-class toxicologist. In my view, when Hutton was shot he was as conscious as I am.”
“I simply can’t accept that, Drake. Are you asking me to believe … ?”
“I’m not asking anything. I’m telling you. He was in rude health. So am I. Good-by.” The telephone clicked.
James slowly replaced the receiver. “Did you hear that, Sergeant?”
Maddox grinned. “No trouble at all, sir. So Hutto
n wasn’t unconscious?”
James shrugged. For the first time since the beginning of the case, he felt utterly at a loss. “They must find something. Are we expected to believe that a young, strong chap like Hutton, in full possession of his faculties, would allow himself to be taken to a grave in the middle of the night and would then climb down into it voluntarily and quietly allow himself to be shot? Besides, the angle would be all wrong. His head must have been right down when the shot struck him.”
“He might have been marched to the grave at the point of a gun,” suggested Maddox. “That sort of thing happened often enough during the war. The SS used to make their prisoners dig their own graves as well as lie down in them to be shot.”
“I dare say, but there was a sort of mass helplessness about that, and the poor devils probably didn’t care any more. I can’t see Hutton doing it.” James sat silent for a while. “No, I can’t see it, Maddox,” he said finally. “For one thing, that gangster stuff might work all right with a revolver, but a shotgun’s a pretty unhandy weapon to keep stuck in anybody’s ribs. And think of the ground they’d have had to cover. Wherever he was brought from and whichever way he came—leaving aside the business of the boat—there’d have been obstacles. Dikes or stiles or banks or stone walls. It was pitch dark, remember—Hutton would have had a damn good chance to make a break for it. He’d have put up a fight, I’m sure. I know I wouldn’t undertake to keep a man under control with a shotgun, even across the churchyard, in the conditions of Saturday night. One stumble over a gravestone, and he’s off to tell his tale to the world—then what happens to the would-be murderer? The whole thing would have been an appalling risk.”
For once, Maddox had no further suggestions to make. He didn’t find the idea of a forced march very convincing either.
“You know, Sergeant,” James said presently, “this picture we’ve got at the moment, of Hutton being shot in the grave, is pretty unsatisfactory whichever way you look at it. Even if he was unconscious—which we’re now told he wasn’t. Imagine the setup. Once Hutton was in the grave, the murderer wouldn’t have been able to see a thing. He certainly wouldn’t have dared to show more than a glimmer of light, and he’d have had to empty his two barrels more or less by guesswork. Suppose he’d only inflicted a couple of flesh wounds—nonfatal wounds, anyway. What would he have done then?—he’d have been in the deuce of a mess. I suppose he might have got down into the grave and pulped the fellow’s head with a stone, but it all sounds a most clumsy and unlikely business. Surely an intelligent murderer wouldn’t have set out on a trip like that on a wild night with such obvious risks and difficulties ahead? And of course, if Hutton was actually conscious and kicking at the time, the risk of bungling the job would have been greater than ever. For one thing he’d have made a noise …” A note of exasperation had crept into the inspector’s voice.